Patterns
by Saavik13
Summary: There was no escape. Not from the doctor or his biology or the patterns his life seemed hell bent on repeating. Some things are simply inevitable.


A/N: Originally published in Spiced Peaches XIX

The challenge was to write a story using the title of a Simon and Garfunkel song. (Actually it was technically supposed to be a Paul Simon song, but hey, this counts.)

* * *

_The night sets softly_

_With the hush of falling leaves,_

_Casting shivering shadows_

_On the houses through the trees,_

_And the light from a street lamp_

_Paints a pattern on my wall,_

_Like the pieces of a puzzle_

_Or a child's uneven scrawl._

Spock was not inclined to take evening strolls. Life on a starship made such a thing a near impossibility. When off duty he made it a point to avoid most public areas. If he did not than he would soon find himself embroiled in a fellow crew member's work problems to the point that he may as well have been on the bridge. But the current mission had necessitated he stay planet side and he was...his mother would say he was feeling melancholy. So for the first time in years, Spock was actively considering taking a leisurely stroll through a park for no good reason.

Perhaps he was homesick? Spock shook himself firmly and banished the thought. Vulcan wasn't home and the Enterprise was...only a ship. A simple Constitution class vessel, nothing more, a reflection of Earth's ascetic sensibilities and the practically necessitated by deep space travel. Yet...the surroundings Spock currently found himself in were eliciting an illogical desire for red metallic threaded bedding and purple downcast lighting.

The room he'd been given by the local prefect was utilitarian, Spartan even by his standards. The bed was too short for him and was little more than an upholstered ledge clinging to one of the beige walls as if it were a growth. The scratchy, stiff white bedding was of poor quality and meant for the rougher semi reptilian skin of the planet's main inhabitants. The table was also short and the chair may as well have been a foot stool. Granted the native species was smaller in stature than a Vulcan, but Spock had hoped they'd have made accommodations for off world guests by now. They had joined the Federation nearly 10 years prior and were regularly visited by Starfleet vessels. It would have been a common curtsy to have at least one guest suite made up to accommodate more humanoid, or vulcanoid as the case may be, visitors.

The lack of apparent hospitality was starting to wear on Spock's control. It didn't help that this was the third such mission he'd been assigned to in so many months. As an ambassador's son, Spock had diplomatic training that far excelled the required courses at the academy. When the Enterprise took any sort of a break, for repairs or shore leave, Spock had started to find himself temporarily reassigned to these tedious diplomatic missions. His current role was to negotiate a trade agreement for an herb that grew on the planet. Evidently it was gaining popularity on Earth and the Federation wanted to increase access. It had no medicinal purpose, no real importance. Humans had just figured out that if they crushed it and poured vodka on top it created a most potent cocktail. The native population thought this was hilarious and were more than willing to sell mass quantities of the weed at a high price to the silly humans. Why the Federation thought they needed to send Spock to fill out the paperwork was beyond him. But here he was, holed up in the tiny ugly little room waiting for pickup. The paperwork was done, the agreement signed, and he had another 4.87 hours to wait until the Enterprise finished its repairs and could swing by to get him.

The only good thing about the accommodations he'd been given was the small window that looked out over the residential street outside the compound. The roads here were lined heavily with trees and the double moon shown through casting shadows across the barren walls. Spock contemplated going for a walk again but the temperature dropped precipitously at night and he was already chilled. Instead, he laid down on the small cot and tried to mediate. The shadows cast by the bright moonlight flickered eerily in the stillness and Spock frowned slightly as the mottled light filtered through his closed eyelids. Too many years on a ship had made him apprehensive to changes in lighting. Usually it meant a power failure, or an alien intruder, or some other danger. The waving leaves and their shadows were creating a heightened state of anxiety in him and Spock had to step up his control to compensate. He was finding it nearly impossible to clear his mind. Memories seemed to float to the surface, one after another, conjured by the shadows of the leaves on beige nondescript walls. His mother's voice, the smell of the ocean outside the academy, the vibration of the ship's engines, the brush of the Doctor's hand during a scan, the taste of snow...random impressions assaulted his mind and for a moment Spock thought there might be truth in the local legends of a bewitched moon.

Spock gave up on meditation and rolled to his side, his back tight against the wall. It had been years since he laid down and watched the play of leaves on a wall. He'd been five the first time, on a trip with his parents to Gallifaya. Part diplomatic mission, part vacation, he'd laid on the sleep pallet and watched the lush vegetation sway in the light and the shadows danced for him in time to his mother's soft humming as she prepared for bed, the brush moving through her long unbound hair like silk.

The next time, he'd been in his teens and visiting his mother's family for only the second time. They'd given him her old room and he'd laid in bed and remembered her stories about climbing down the oak tree outside the window and going to a party in the woods and getting caught sneaking back in. He'd tried to imagine what it would be like to have something worth sneaking out to.

The last time had been at the academy on his first night. They'd no idea what kind of accommodations to give their first Vulcan recruit. The room had been drafty and the exterior temperature unseasonably cold for California and Spock had stayed awake all night trying to keep his body temperature up. The street light had caused the magnolia outside to cast shadows nearly as intoxicating as its sent.

As Spock lay on the equally cold ledge he couldn't help but think that there was a metaphor in such patterns. He could not tell which tree's leaves the shadows represented, nor what leaf matched each darkened patch. The light distorted and angled the reality and projected it, changed and mutated, nearly unrecognizable as what it really was. But where was the truth in such an image? Was the shadow just as real as the leaf? One could stare unendingly at the shadow and never know the source, but did that mean the shadow was less than the leaf or more? Equal or separate?

Not for the first time Spock felt more kinship to the shadow than the leaf. It was so easy for everyone to see his projection, but so difficult to see the source.

It was no coincidence that each night of his life that he'd laid awake and pondered the patterns on his wall had lead him to make a choice. At five he'd chosen the Vulcan path. At 15 he'd made the choice, although unvoiced, to leave his home and travel the stars. At 19, at the academy, he'd made the choice to remain no matter the trials before him.

Now, at 39, as he lay in the tiny harsh bed on a planet he hoped to never set foot back on, Spock wondered what decision this nights pondering would conjure. He was not at odds with himself, at least not to his knowledge. But perhaps that was the point of the exercise. Something had stopped his mediations, changed his focus to the shifting leaves. There had been ample chance to observe such patterns between the academy and the current mission, yet this was the only time he'd felt so inclined. His subconscious twitched and Spock raised an eyebrow in the silence.

_Up a narrow flight of stairs_

_In a narrow little room,_

_As I lie upon my bed_

_In the early evening gloom._

_Impaled on my wall_

_My eyes can dimly see_

_The pattern of my life_

_And the puzzle that is me._

Ah.

The realization when it came was unexpected, but then Spock had actively tried to forget. The lack of external stimulation provided by the stark quarters and unfriendly planetary inhabitants had deprived him of any means of further procrastination, it would seem, and now his highly organized mind was pressing the point. There was a decision to make, however much he was loath to do so.

He was worried, no _concerned,_ about his future. The Enterprise mission was ending. The crew would part ways and he would find himself under a new captain...or perhaps not. Starfleet didn't make it a habit of keeping first officers in the same position through multiple five year deployments. He'd been on the same ship through two such missions. They would want him for the Academy now, or the Admiralty, or try to give him his own command.

He did not want command. He did not want to teach. Had either of those appealed to him he would have stayed on Vulcan rather than fleeing to Earth and to Starfleet. Where would he go now that such an option was again being pressed upon him?

Back to Vulcan.

The call of the sand was tickling the back of his mind and Spock knew the cause well enough. His cycle was looping back around and soon he would have to face the reality that a mate would be needed. Or he could attempt...

He was going full circle. Vulcan to Earth, Earth to Vulcan, logic to emotion, emotion to ...._Kolinahr_? Like a ball, bouncing between the two worlds, never stopping, never finding answers or peace or...rest.

Spock turned carefully onto his side to escape the shifting shadows. He was tired. Very tired. The threat of the Time was getting to him. It wasn't as if he could even predict when the next one would hit. Caught as he was, suspended between biology's, and cultures, and mores, and duties, he never knew when one would rise up and demand precedence over another. _Pon farr_, he'd learned, couldn't be ignored or controlled. It had to be dealt with in the Vulcan way and no other. There was no human equivalent, no human option that his mother's blood could magically grant him. All her genetic contribution could do was disrupt the pattern, alter it enough to wreak havoc. He knew it was coming, knew that no matter what path he chose it would find him. But he didn't know when.

_From the moment of my birth_

_To the instant of my death,_

_There are patterns I must follow_

_Just as I must breathe each breath._

_Like a rat in a maze_

_The path before me lies,_

_And the pattern never alters_

_Until the rat dies._

Spock sighed, glad he was alone for this internal debate. He'd been lucky. So many years off Vulcan until the Time had caught up. As horrible as the timing had been, as bad as the entire experience was, it could have been far far worse. He'd been incredibly lucky despite his foolish risk taking. He'd left Vulcan not knowing if he'd ever feel the burning and made no plans if it were to happen. He'd risked his own life, his crew's, his captain's, and if he'd gone into the fires on a mission he could have done damage to the Federation itself, might have caused a diplomatic incident. He knew now, down to his very bones, that it wouldn't be a one time happening, that it would plague him forever now, a hound snapping at his heels as Dr. McCoy had called it. Still, he'd made no plan. He was being irresponsible and this human trait worried him.

The doctor was worried too, Spock knew. The irritating human had made it a point during every Starfleet regulation exam to bring it up. Never letting Spock forget it. Never letting the pattern go unremarked. McCoy was convinced there was still a pattern to it, something to do with chemicals or emotional buildup, something that would determine when Spock would next become lost to the fires. It couldn't be chance, and it wasn't the typical "seven year itch" as the doctor had nicknamed it. But it had to be triggered by something. Problem was that with only one occurrence to base conclusions on there was no evidence to even begin to try and analyze. Never the less, McCoy had been trying for years and had vowed to keep trying until they'd worked out a solution Spock could live with. He'd even offered...it did not matter what he'd offered. _Pon farr_ was a biological drive to mate for procreation, and the doctor did not have the required...equipment. It did not matter how badly Spock would have liked to accept, the fires were not his to control. McCoy had visibly crumpled when Spock had explained this and then the doctor had vowed, even more firmly, that he'd find a way around it.

Spock wasn't as convinced, but there was little he could do to dissuade the doctor when he got his teeth into a research problem. So every quarter he allowed himself to be poked and prodded and examined and analyzed. And every quarter the doctor cursed and railed and found nothing of use. Every quarter, McCoy would look at him and Spock's human half could see the despair in the doctor's eyes that he could not show in his own.

There was no escape. Not from the doctor or his biology or the patterns his life seemed hell bent on repeating.

Vulcan to Earth. Earth to space. Space to Vulcan. Logic to emotion. Emotion to chaos. Chaos to logic. Vulcan to human. Human to hybrid. Hybrid to Vulcan. Diplomat to scientist. Scientist to soldier. Soldier to diplomat.

He could run but he would not win the race. His people would find him. His biology would catch him. And the doctor would...save him.

Spock sat up straight on the narrow bench. That was...a disturbing thought. True, McCoy did have an uncanny ability to pull defeat from the jaws of disaster, but they all did. Why did McCoy come to mind and not the captain? Why did either play into this introspection? What did the good doctor have to do with the decision that lay before him?

Spock had never allowed himself to consider accepting the doctor's...errand of mercy. It was no secret that McCoy was more _flexible_ in his partners than Jim, but Spock had never allowed himself the same luxury. The fires were a constant nagging worry and such _flexibility_ would not help him at that critical point. So why did he hesitate a little longer at the end of each quarter's exam? Why did he linger in Sick Bay and why did McCoy continue to look at him with such...sorrow? It wasn't logical. It wasn't practical. It wasn't....

Vulcan or Earth? Earth or space? Space or Vulcan?

_And the pattern still remains_

_On the wall where darkness fell,_

_And it's fitting that it should,_

_For in darkness I must dwell._

_Like the color of my skin,_

_Or the day that I grow old,_

_My life is made of patterns_

_That can scarcely be controlled._

Perhaps it was starting. That would explain this irrational debate he was finding himself engaged in, his strange melancholy, his inability to meditate.

Spock checked his internal systems and did not detect any alteration in his body functions that would indicate the start of _pon farr_, only the nagging sense that it would, at some point, come again.

If it was not already upon him, what was the cause for this...emotionality? Why was he even considering McCoy's proposition?

He would have liked to have talked this over with his friend. Jim was usually quite helpful when dealing with emotional matters that Vulcan logic failed with. But at the moment Jim was impossible to converse with. The looming date for their return to Earth was like a sword poised over the man's head. Rumor had it the Admiralty was intent on promotion and a desk position. Jim wasn't pleased and lately it was the topic of nearly all their conversations.

The entire crew, as a matter of fact, was inordinately preoccupied with their future plans.

McCoy was looking forward to some time with his daughter. He'd made plans to retire from the service and settle down back on the 'family farm' in Georgia. He'd invited Jim to visit...and Spock.

Mr. Scott was going to oversee the ship's retrofitting. He was already pouring over plans and making adjustments.

Uhura had a post waiting for her teaching stellar communications at the Academy for a semester before her planned short vacation with a cultural heritage group in Africa. She was trying to keep her schedule open so she'd be available to redeploy with the Enterprise in two years time.

Mr. Sulu and Mr. Chekoff were doing the same thing. They'd accepted short term postings on two different science vessels that were doing short survey missions along the Federation/Empire boarders. According to the rumor mill they'd arrive back on Earth just weeks before the Enterprise was due to launch.

Chapel was leaving to finish medical school.

Rand was being promoted and moved up the ranks. Uhura had been working with her on her comm skills and the Yeoman had tested so high that Starfleet was giving her a post as a communications officer on the Yorktown.

Riley was moving up as well. He'd been given the rank of Lt. Commander and was leaving for a position as first officer on a smaller, faster, deep space exploration vessel that the Federation was testing. It was classified, and dangerous, and the young man couldn't stop grinning at his luck.

Spock was the only one not to have a plan, or an assignment, or some sort of an idea what would happen in 2.3 months when the Enterprise docked back at Earth. Starfleet was trying to groom him for a diplomatic position and Spock could not entirely suppress his irritation at that. He wasn't a diplomat. He was a soldier. A "damn good officer" to quote Kirk. He wasn't meant to do his father's job. He wasn't meant to be accommodating and underhanded. The longer he was in space the more he'd started to see a point to Mr. Scott's hypothesis of a "fully armed phaser bank". While he'd never be content with the use of violence he wasn't above using it when necessary. He was capable of diplomacy, but he did not relish it and if left in the position for too long the Federation would soon learn they'd made a mistake. Spock had never been good at following the party line.

Spock nearly jumped when his communicator beeped. He took a deep breath and reestablished his control before answering.

"Spock here."

"We're back, Mr. Spock." Kirk's voice cheerily intoned through the speaker grill and Spock raised an eyebrow.

"Indeed, captain. I had assumed as much since you were contacting me. Were you not 'back' you would be out of range."

"Damn pointy eared..." McCoy's voice grumbled in the background and Spock heard the captain chuckle.

Spock gathered up his papers. "Ready to beam aboard, Captain."

"Mr. Scott." Kirk replied and the tingle of the transporter began.

Spock stepped off the platform and nodded at the chief engineer before heading for the bridge. Kirk was smiling a little overly fondly at one of the younger female ensigns when he arrived and McCoy was leaning against the railing with a bemused expression on his face. Spock handed the signed treaty over to Uhura to have it digitized and signed into record before taking his place at the science station.

Kirk broke off his flirtation to conduct a short informal debriefing and scheduled a full round for the next day. Spock forced himself to concentrate throughout the encounter and thought his inner conflict was not readily apparent to any of his fellow officers. He'd underestimated the doctor. Kirk was happy he was back and still wound up from his brief time on the space station while the ship was being repaired and wasn't paying close attention. The doctor, however, was watching with a clinicians eye. When Spock stood up and made to leave the bridge the doctor followed him into the turbo lift.

Spock didn't say anything and the doctor didn't attempt to start conversation. He simply followed the stiff backed Vulcan from the lift to his quarters and proceeded to sit down uninvited at the table. When he propped his feet up on it and leaned back Spock gave an uncharacteristically loud sigh.

"What is it you require, doctor?"

McCoy smirked. "What makes you think I require anything, Spock? I'm here to listen. I do have advanced degrees in psychology."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I fail to see how your academic achievements have any bearing on why you are currently sitting in my quarters."

McCoy straightened up and lowered his legs back to the ground. "I haven't seen you this preoccupied since we got back from the ice planet. Something's upset you. What aren't you telling Jim? Did they do something to you down there?"

Spock shook his head negatively. "They are not the most hospitable hosts but I managed adequately."

"So what's got your goat?"

Spock stared at the fire pot and raised both eyebrows. "I do not know." He sat down somewhat wearily across from the doctor. "I am rarely at loss, doctor, but I currently find myself in a must unusual and unwelcome position, that of not knowing what I want. There are several options available to me, none of which are entirely satisfactory."

McCoy regarded him seriously for a moment. "Go on."

"I..." Spock paused and closed his eyes briefly. The doctor was willing to hear him out and Spock felt the unusual urge to unburden. After serving five years together, Spock had come to consider the man a ...friend. He took a deep breath and started speaking softly. "When I was a child I wished to gain my father's respect and that of Vulcan. When I was old enough I realized that these things were not important next to how I viewed myself. So I left Vulcan for Starfleet because it was what I wanted. It was what I needed to do. I wished to explore, to learn, to experience. Now that this has been achieved, I find I am at a loss as to what to do next."

McCoy nodded. "You're awful young, Spock, for a Vulcan. You've got a lot of time left to keep exploring. Aren't you just technically out of puberty?"

"For all intents and purposes." Spock sighed again. "I have not followed the Vulcan path. There are...rites of passage I have not achieved. I do not relish the thought of returning to Vulcan and my father's house. He will...expect me to complete these despite the fact that I have progressed beyond them."

"He'll treat you like a teenager, marry you off, make sure you crank out a couple pointy eared little heirs to the line, and lock you in a research office in the VSA until you're grey."

"Essentially, yes." Spock looked up and caught the look of disgust on McCoy's face. "That is why I will not go back to my family."

"So you're signing up for another tour?" McCoy leaned back in his chair. "This is your second time out. You spent a five year stent with Pike before this current one. All of it on the Enterprise. Are you comfortable going to another ship or are you planning on holding out for the retrofit?"

Spock cocked an eyebrow. "I will not have a place on the next Enterprise, doctor. They will not give me command of her and they will not keep me as first officer. I believe they plan on forcing me into the diplomatic service."

McCoy snorted. "They'd regret that pretty quick. You'd make peace with somebody they wanted to bomb and bomb somebody they wanted you to make peace with."

Spock couldn't stop the small lift to the corner of his mouth. "I have to concur with your opinion."

"So what are you going to do?"

Spock turned his seat away and leaned back against the wall. "I do not know. I could perhaps regain my position as an instructor at the academy. But this holds little appeal."

"Been there done that." McCoy tapped his fingers on the table in thought. "You could probably get Jim to work out a transfer to another ship before we dock. Any captain in the fleet would kill to have you. We both know they wouldn't be able to make too much of a stink if Jim worked it out with another of the Constitution class captains. They're a tight bunch and command knows better than to piss them off."

"I do not wish to serve another captain."

McCoy sighed. "Than I don't know what to tell you, Spock. If 'fleet wants you in the diplomatic corp and you don't have another solid plan you'll find yourself there before you can blink. They are already positioning you for it. I mean, you just got back from a mission."

"I know." Spock's eyes hardened. "I am contemplating allowing my commission to lapse."

"Leave Starfleet?" McCoy sounded shocked.

"For a time." Spock stood up and walked over to the firepot and gently touched the carved stone as if petting the creature. "I have not been back to Vulcan since our trip there under rather unpleasant circumstances. I was never...content there, but it is my home."

"Go back for a visit." McCoy stood up and moved next to him. "Spock, we both know you won't go back to your father and Vulcan society won't tolerate you living outside the clan."

"I am aware of this, Doctor." Spock spoke softly, his dark eyes reflecting the dancing flames. "There are options..."

"Such as?"

"_Kolinahr._" Spock spoke the word with a finality that made McCoy cringe.

"I don't like the sound of this and I don't even know what it is yet." McCoy sat down on the bed and shook his head. "You said that word like it means you're walking to a firing squad."

"It is the purging of all emotion, a spiritual quest for logic." Spock lifted his hand from the statue and sat down heavily next to his friend. "A monastic calling, a path my father could not deny me."

McCoy sucked in a sharp breath. "You're talking about becoming a monk? I think I like the idea of your father better, or even the diplomatic corp."

Spock looked at his hands. "It is not the same as on Earth. _Kolinahr_ is...a way of life but it is not necessarily an isolated path. Once achieved I could leave the monastery. I could return to Starfleet or go on to other vocations. It would...be a logical choice."

"Damn it, Spock!" McCoy stoop up and glared at his friend. "You can't just go and do that! You can't give up part of yourself because you don't like the other options. Hell, I've got a spare room with your name on it. You can come meditate till you're blue in the face and I'll leave you the hell alone. You don't have to run to a monastery!"

Spock raised his head and felt a shift in himself as realization settled and the choice fell into place. "No, Doctor, I cannot. I must attempt _Kolinahr, _not because it is the only option, but because it is necessary. I am two halves at war, two parts that cannot find balance. I have given one side precedence for the last 25 years. I must now give the other a chance to be dominate. Despite your frequent comments to the contrary, I have been living for my human half. Now, I must attend to that which is Vulcan."

McCoy gapped at him and Spock stood up, pulling himself to his full height. "I have made my decision. Thank you for your council, doctor."

McCoy reached out to grip his arm. "Spock, what about...." he swallowed thickly. "Don't make me ask again. What are you going to do when _it _happens?"

Spock looked down at the hand gripping his arm. "I am facing that problem at last, doctor. That is why I will pursue this course. _Kolinahr_ masters do not...have the same considerations. They are not subject to the patterns of the Time to the same degree."

McCoy shook his head. "You don't have to do this. You have other options."

"No." Spock reached a hand out to gently cup the side of McCoy's face. "I do not." McCoy started to open his mouth to protest but Spock stilled him by brushing his thumb across his cheek. "I know what you are again offering but you cannot cure this and I cannot control it. I will not put another crew at risk by my selfishness. If I wish to travel the stars I must alter this pattern."

"We could embrace it." McCoy whispered.

Spock leaned down until their foreheads touched. "No Leonard, we cannot. I know you are...offering assistance. I would accept but it is not possible." McCoy shivered at the unexpected contact and Spock whispered, "We have discussed this before."

"Why?" McCoy's voice shook and he reached his hands up to grip Spock's biceps to keep him from drawing away. "Why do you keep saying no? Even if I can't...be there for you then, what about now? All the times between?"

Spock closed his eyes and ran his hand backwards into the thick hair at the back of his friend's head, holding him so tightly that their noses brushed and the skin on their foreheads started to bruise.

"Because you cannot save me this time and it would be illogical to pretend otherwise. It is a biological impulse. No matter my ...desires, I have will have to mate."

"With a female." McCoy's voice broke. "Do we know that for sure? Has anyone tried it another way?"

Spock released him and drew back enough he could look into his eyes. "In this I am Vulcan, doctor. The time cannot be satisfied between us, the pattern is unalterable."

McCoy swallowed. "Is that why you never responded to any of my..."

Spock nodded. "The only reason." Spock's face softened and his voice lowered. "I am...interested. But I cannot hurt you by leaving for another when the Time does arrive. I must do this so that..." Spock hesitated. "I must do this so that one day I can accept your offer."

McCoy laughed bitterly. "You have to purge all emotion so you can be emotional _with _me?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "That is the pattern I must follow."

McCoy closed his eyes in pain. "So you're saying I can't have you until you do this, but once you do you won't want it will you?"

Spock frowned ever so slightly. "I do not know. There are logical reasons to accept your advances if the fires were not of concern. These may prove enough after _Kolinahr_." Spock shivered. "I do not see any alternative but to try."

"How long?" McCoy asked quietly, his eyes still shut.

"Two years. I will find you then."

McCoy opened his eyes and glared. "You asking me to wait for you?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "No, but you will."

McCoy snorted. "How do you know that?"

"It is _your_ pattern."

Exactly 2.54 years later there was a gentle thud as the symbol of the _Kolinahr _fell to the sands and the priestess walked away. Vulcan to Earth. Earth to Enterprise. Enterprise to Vulcan. Vulcan to Enterprise.


End file.
